Our Aria
by VolturiRUs
Summary: Isabella Swan, an aspiring Opera singer who just got accepted into Julliard school for music. Though there to study her passion, she keeps running into a handsome face named Jasper Whitlock- a man studying Opera as well, in his Sophmore year. With her cold hearted, sarcastic, witty sense of humor, and his smooth and handsome nature, can these two singers develop their own Aria?


**Disclaimer:**

 **I own nothing recognizable to the twilight franchise.**

 **Though everything unrecognizable is of my own imagination, so don't steal unless you have asked my permission and I have granted it.**

 **Enjoy, and remember to review and tell me what you think.**

* * *

"Shit, shit shit shit," I hissed, "Why was the parking lot made like this? How the hell am I supposed to navigate if I get in?" letting out a frustrated growl, I pushed my chocolate colored hair behind my ears and scoured the parking lot for a spot.

My clunky piece-of-shit truck gave a lurch and narrowly missed scraping the sleek black paint off a new Prius as I finally found a spot- _all the way in the back of the god damn parking lot._ I ripped the keys out of the ignition, grabbing my boho-purse and my folder with my sheet music before slamming the stupid rust-red door and maneuvering my way through the hundreds of parked cars.

"Fucking Juilliard and their overfull, too small, parking lots. You'd think with how rich they are they'd have enough money to make the parking lot bigger." I grumbled, slugging my purse across my body and ripping my hair from under the strap. My curly locks fell over my shoulder to my waist, the brown shining with hints of red in the sunlight. My jeans were tight around my muscular thighs, and the harsh denim brought a sense of comfort to me in this new and unknown location.

New York City- the big apple. The traffic was dreadful, people weaved through the cars instead of waiting at the light, people in cars behind you- despite _knowing_ it's not your fault- shout and honk their horns from their vehicles. It smells like cigarettes and greasy food, and the people here gave zero fucks about anyone's opinions- and it was _amazing_. I could roll in the sarcasm and animosity of the city-life. It was something I didn't even know my cold heart longed for, growing up in Phoenix, Arizona, then Forks, Washington I had gotten a feel of both big and small areas. I thought small towns was what I was happy with, what I could be happy in, until I drove here all the way from Washington State, by myself.

I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders, like my sarcasm and antagonistic behavior was finally understood where it hadn't ever been before. Though I still felt the nervousness of being in a new state, with no knowledge of how to navigate, I felt welcome.

But feeling welcome wouldn't help me with this audition.

As a child, my mother had put me through numerous dance classes, gymnastic classes, art classes of all sorts, and acting lessons. She wanted me to get a head start on discovering my talent early so she could help me hone it as I grew into adulthood. Our discovery? I couldn't keep my hand still enough to draw a straight line, I couldn't paint to save my life, I fell flat in gymnastics in more ways than one- but singing and dancing. More specifically, classical singing, and ballet dancing. I was a duck taking to water, a fish taken out of the air and back into the sea. Opera called to me like a second nature, and despite how ungraceful I was on the daily, with ballet shoes on I was as graceful as could be.

As I grew up, I knew this was what I wanted to do. Despite my harsh sense of humor and general animosity toward any living or breathing thing, this was my calling. My one true love in life. Eventually, Opera won out over dancing, and as I lived my childhood and teen years in operas all over phoenix, dancing was, thankfully, something I could keep doing despite hanging up my shoes for sheet music. My mother introduced me to the idea of attending Juilliard when I was in middle school, and just knowing there was a world renound school where I could do nothing but focus on music, my heart leapt. My grades were straight A's, even when making the drastic switch to Forks, Washington my senior year, I was involved in every club to make my college application look better. My service hours were so profound I was recognized at graduation and received a scholarship of three thousand dollars for it. And in any school I went to, I was known as the sarcastic bitch who sang like an angel.

But I didn't care what people thought, I didn't care how crass I behaved. I had always been more mature than those around me, feeling more like a 40 year old woman trapped in the body of an eighteen year old, and I only had one vision in sight: Juilliard. The place where there will be hundreds of thousands of students like me, people so focused on music they didn't care about anything else. There was no other profession available- this was it. Go big or go home- and I had no plans on returning anywhere but my hotel room.

Everything was riding on this audition- my audition for Juilliard's Voice Program, specializing in Opera- Italian Opera. _Swoon._

It would be more exciting if this damn parking lot didn't mess with my mojo, and traffic didn't make me- I looked at my watch- _late!_

"Shit fuck!" I cursed, rushing and weaving through the assembly of parked vehicles and ran to the building the toll person directed me toward.

"Hold the door!" I shouted, seeing a blond man exiting the very building I needed to gain entrance too, immediately.

He was tall, but in the gleaming sun that was all I could tell and it seems he didn't realize I was talking to him, the only one exiting from a door, as he looked around him. It was too late for me to stop though, and in my high- heeled boots, I skidded before tumbling into the oddly rock hard man. He caught me by the elbow, but I cried out when his grip was not only hard enough to shatter bones (thankfully he didn't mine) but was ice fucking cold- _was the building that freezing inside? Should I have brought a jacket?_

"Mother fucker, dude don't you have ears?" I shouted, yanking my elbow from his grip while rubbing out the pain of the joint.

"I apologize ma'am." He gasped, holding out a hand to help me up.

"Don't be sorry, be careful." I hissed, taking his hand and hoisting myself off the ground.

I attempted to ignore the swoon I almost gave at the sound of his accent, but for not seeing his face yet I was surprisingly almost turned on. _Jesus, has it been that long?_

"Noted." Mr. Southern charm drawled with a light chuckle that made me almost collapse again.

"They already did a name call, if you are auditioning for the Vocal Program." He said with a raised brow.

My eyes met his- ocean. Pure sea was all I saw as the pools glinted in the sunlight. I swear it was like his skin almost sparkled as my eyes raked over his casually dressed body. Jesus, fuck. My mouth watered. Chiseled jaw, perfect for running my tongue over. A smile that almost dropped my pants and panties, his straight, pearly teeth calling to my ovaries- I felt like a bitch in heat, rather than the bitch sweating in the heat that I was. His hair was long enough I could see he had it in a bun behind his head, my absolute weakness was man buns.

Fuck me sideways.

"Excuse me?" he laughed with a slightly awkward tone.

"What?" I snapped at this gorgeous creature.

"As much as I love the offer, Darlin', I feel as though if I were to fuck you sideways at this moment, you would lose all ability to get to the audition I assume you were rushing for- "

"Shit! Thanks, I'll take you up on that offer later!" I called over my shoulder with a wink as I ran through the doors, frigid air blasting my face with my entry.

I ran through the waiting room to the open door where I could see a line of people within standing on a stage as names were being called out. "So, the only applicant missing for the in-person audition is Ms. Isabella Sw- "

"I'm here!" I shouted, rushing across the stage while pulling my folder tighter to my chest.

"Pray tell why you are late Ms. Swan?" a woman with the tightest bun and pinched face I had ever seen asked haughtily.

"Traffic's a bitch." I muttered, finding my proper place in the alphabetized line.

"Excuse me!" she shouted.

I blanched, meeting her blazing hazel eyes under the glaring light. I swallowed a thick lump in my throat and rubbed the back of my neck, "I mean, I don't know the area very well, and didn't know it would take so long to find good parking. I apologize, Ms…" I trailed, waiting for her supply of information.

"Mrs. Blatson." Someone _actually_ married this chick?

" _Mrs_. Blatson." I parroted.

"Make sure it doesn't happen again Ms. Swan, tardiness isn't tolerated here in Juilliard, no matter the circumstance. Seeing as all applicants are finally here, I surmise we can begin. Please separate from your alphabetized order into your sections, we will begin with Bass and work our way up. Once into your sections, please return into your alphabetized order, as it will make our finding of your sheet music easier, and we will tell you when to begin." I nodded, considering the whirlwind of people around me until I found someone shouting Soprano from across the stage.

Rushing to the bigger statured woman around my age, I hastily fell into my position as the last singer, which made me the last of the last. I sighed internally, preparing myself for a long wait. I was mildly shocked as a man began ushering us into the chairs that filled the concert hall, demanding we stay in our positions. In every audition that I've partaken in they had us wait outside so the judges could have personal time with each applicant. It allowed them the sense of privacy and intimacy to connect with their song of choosing. to connect with their song of choosing. This was odd, but I liked it. I had secretly been considering sneaking my way back in to listen to the voices I would be put up against, and now I didn't have to. I had always wanted to know what kind of people auditioned for Juilliard, and what type of people they were looking for, vocally, to accept.

Mrs. Blatson stood on center stage, her scouring gaze looking over every student in attendance that sat in their rows.

"I will state this once for all of you so we don't have to repeat it for every applicant. I am Mrs. Blatson, German Diction coach. Following down the panel of judges from the door to where you all are seated, is Mr. Carlisle Cullen, Italian Diction and Vocal Literature teacher, beside him is his wife Esme Cullen teaching Acting for Singers. Next is Aro Volturi teaching Opera Studies, besides Mr. Volturi is Sulpicia Edwards teaching Diction. Beside Ms. Edwards is Tanya Denali Rhythm and Performance teacher, next to her is Marcus Medins teaching Vocal Coaching, and beside him is Caius Volturi- Aro Volturi's brother- teaching the history of singing. And our final two panel judges Peter Martinson and Charlotte Chord- Mr. Martinson lectures for our vocal seminar class and last but not least Mrs. Chord teaches voice- so if you make it into our program you will be seeing lots of her." Mrs. Blatson's voice was grating on my nerves. I understood how she taught German Diction, I could tell from her voice it was her first language.

German, though I was fluent in it as well as several other languages, was not my favorite. It left my skin feeling like I needed a shower, and my mouth and tongue felt odd when I had to morph to speak the language. It was irritating, and though it sounded beautiful in all forms- song or speech- it was one of my most challenging languages to learn. Maybe I'm just upset because it took me a year longer than any other language I studied to get down fluently. I made sure to study the faces of each panel judge closely, looking at each one and seeing who I would get to know in my time here if I made it in.

Mrs. Blatson sat in the first chair in the long line of panel judges, before leaning into the mike in front of her seat, "We will take the first in the Bass section." A large man, looking around twenty stood from his chair and walked on stage, placing his first set of music on the stand before looking to the judges.

"Our accompanist has a copy of your music, are you prepared to begin with your English piece?"

"Of course." My eyebrows raised, _definitely a bass._

I smiled as he cleared his throat and the beginning chords of Handels, Xerxes ' _My lord, My lord'_ started.

His voice was quite nice, resonant within his chest with a good forward sound that swooped through the concert hall with a beautiful echo. He was having a struggle with shaping his vowels to match certain words, but I wouldn't have minded doing a duet with this fella if given the opportunity. And so the basses continued, the panel giving some pointers for a couple of people and giving them specific classes that could help them with their problems if accepted. As they went down the groups the sound of scribbling pens and pencils started to grow louder and louder in my ears. I rested my head on the back of my chair and sank low until I was in a severely comfortable position. The sound of writing utensils built into a crescendo that caressed the edges of my ears, letting my eyes droop to cover my view of the stage. Flipping pages entered into the orchestra, small hums of appreciation and whispered chats amongst the judges coming into the chorus.

The crescendo built to a steady fermata, booming for a few seconds, before drifting into a decrescendo that took just as long to drop as it did to build. I could hear the beautiful voices of women singing, the altos, the mezzo-sopranos, and finally the sopranos. Their arias lilting high into the air, the English and foreign words all fitting perfectly into my mind, their tones airy with a power building that could knock the cold from my heart. They were beautiful in their passion, but a small part of my brain focused on the mistakes they were making. The drills that had been forced into my head since I was a child in my private lessons were making my skin spasm as the same concurrent mistakes were being made: cutting off the note too soon, not supporting their tone, not pushing forward and swallowing the note, not having breath support- the same thing over and over again that they should have learned when they were in a high school choir, let alone opera classes.

I opened my eyes as the song my brain had created faded into the black as the panel of teachers/ judges gave their critiques to the girl that had previously been sitting next to me. I stood from my seat as the judge- Esme Cullen- called my name. Making my way through the seated people, I hurried my way to the stage trying to ignore the thumping in my chest. I lowered the music stand to my height, laying out the sheets properly- my English piece on one stand, and my Italian on the other.

"Ms. Swan," Mrs. Blatson remarked, "Let's hope your Opera isn't as bad as your attendance."

"Le'Anne!" hissed Esme.

"it's quite alright, Mrs. Cullen. I've dealt with my fair share of divas." I said with a smirk.

She gave me a look at my comment, but let it slide- Le'Anne on the other hand was turning redder by the moment. "Why don't we just begin." Suggested Tanya in a hesitant tone, looking at the redden face of Le'Anne.

"Your first piece is ' _O Let Me Weep'?_ A very beautiful and powerful piece, I can't wait. You may begin, Isabella." I bristled at my full name before smiling lightly.

I nodded, listening to the piano begin. I took a breath, gentling my thoughts. Ignoring the burning stare of the panel and the students. I was the last one up, I had heard everything they had done wrong- and I wouldn't repeat it. I calmed my racing heart, listening to the chords being struck from the pianists fingers. I listened to the speed he was going, sticking strictly to the music and going the slow and steady pace. I lifted the back of my throat, forming the shape necessary, and finally, released it.

 _O let me weep,_

I carried the tone smoothly, letting it resonate before pushing it to the very edges of the theater, filling the whole room.

 _for ever weep,_

I could feel the tears welling within my eyes as emotion after emotion fell over me, placing me directly into the aria as I had been taught my whole life. It was emotional, it was raw, it was beautiful. I could hear the pianist catch my rhythm, slowing and hanging onto my every note to carry the aria farther than it was just on paper.

 _My Eyes no more shall welcome Sleep;_

 _I'll hide me from the sight of Day,_

I could feel the isolation in my bones. The urge to hide from the people around me, the vulnerability of prying eyes witnessing my torment, my weakness.

 _And sigh, and sigh my Soul away.  
He's gone, he's gone, his loss deplore;_

My body shook, my hands my knees. Pain spreading from my chest as my face fell, one tear falling from my waterline as anguish took over my form, hunching my shoulders, clouding my thoughts. Despair, pure despair. Longing, yearning, I could feel nothing in that moment but those emotions. The need to grab someone's hand, and pull them close to my chest. To feel the comfort of another human being holding me was what my soul ached for. My voice arched to the highest part of the ceiling, arching from my body as it rose from my mouth, before dipping again.

 _And I shall never see him more._

I pulled back on the last few notes, letting my tone spin through the room, supporting my frame for the quiet notes I knew I would have to push for the people in the audience to hear. I smiled and wiped my face as I heard the echo of the fading piano and my voice bounce back seconds after the song had ended.

The applause was tasteful, people giving their standing ovations out of respect, and sitting back after. I could see the women in their seats whisper to each other with twisted, envious faces, the men in the audience tried to wink, but I mentally snorted, and few were just staring in awe- I wasn't good enough to deserve that. Though I was confident, I knew my limits. I knew I had room to improve, a lot of room. I knew I needed more help on reaching and carrying my higher notes- especially as a Coloratura. My high range meant I could sing more demanding passages, but I had recently found my range was developing farther as my age grew- as well as my lower notes. I needed to develop and hone these before they became a crackling mess.

I was almost too scared to look at the judges tables, I could see Le'Anne staring furiously, writing something small at the top before dropping her pencil on the table and crossing her thin arms over her chest. The rest of the panel was beaming at me, flipping through the pages and making little marks, before closing the pages. Tanya herself was sitting back and just staring, smiling at me from her spot without making a mark. It was flattering, though I had hoped they would make more in depth marks later than they were now. I had seen them take minutes writing on pages, and they only spent a few moments on one without even a remark. I was happy they thought I did well, but I had found over the years I fed off creative criticism. I feed off the ways I could fix my technique and how I could develop my sound better. I needed to know for futures sake.

I waited a moment until all were done writing, before looking them each in the eye, waiting for a critique only to find none.

"Your second piece I am especially excited about. It is one of my favorites, ' _Ebben? Ne Andro Lontana.'_ I love La Wally more than words can describe. I hope you do the song the justice I believe it deserves." Carlisle's brows were raised with an expectant gaze and I could feel the nerves spread across my flesh.

"Begin." He nodded to the pianist.

I nodded, moving to the next stand, looking over the notes once more before I heard the clinking of the piano keys. I built the character quickly, knowing I had little time before I started. Feeling the desperation claw its way up my throat, the feeling of needing to flee but having nowhere to go, the resignation of a final decision. I stood poised under the spot light, before shrugging my jacket off my arms and standing at attention.

The Italian rolled from my tongue like my natural language, taking away with my voice as I started small, building within each changing note.

 _Ebben! Ne andrò lontana_

 _come va l'eco pia campana,_

 _là fra la neve bianca,_

 _là fra le nubi d'ôr;_

 _laddóve la speranza, la speranza_

 _è rimpianto, è rimpianto, è dolor!_

My chest rose as I began preparing for the light crescendo for the next section. I took a step forward, away from my stand I had yet to look at, not needing my notes that were already ingrained into my mind. My free arms gestured to the sky as I looked at the lights above like they alone were the heavens.

 _O della madre mia casa gioconda_

 _la Wally ne andrà da te, da te,_

 _lontana assai, e forse a te,_

 _e forse a te, non farà mai più ritorno,_

 _nè più la rivedrai!_

 _Mai più, mai più!_

 _Ne andrò sola e lontana,_

 _là fra la neve bianca, n'andrò,_

 _n'andrò sola e lontana_

 _e fra le nubi d'ôr!_

My voice rose higher, filling the space that was available in the auditorium. I could feel my chest turning red with the force of the notes, but I made sure to keep them airy and filled with the rightful emotion they deserved. I let my arms fly out from beside me, stepping forward nad launching the note across the whole of the audience.

 _Ebben! Ne andrò lontana_

 _come va l'eco pia campana,_

 _là fra la neve bianca,_

 _là fra le nubi d'ôr;_

 _laddóve la speranza, la speranza_

 _è rimpianto, è rimpianto, è dolor!_

The pain was no longer an act, it was me as Walla. I was her and her words were my own as I looked out over the cliff my love had been tossed into. I felt the despair, I felt the agony and horrible betrayal. The shame. Oh it was all vicious in my blood, running rampant through my body and making my hair stand on end.

 _O della madre mia casa giocon_ _da_

 _la Wally ne andrà da te, da te,_

 _lontana assai, e forse a te,_

 _e forse a te, non farà mai più ritorno,_

 _nè più la rivedrai_

 _Mai più, mai più!_

I spun the note, peering over the end of the stage and into my oblivion, into my death. Tears trailed down my face, my heart clenched, I could almost smell and hear the rushing water beneath me.

 _Ne andrò sola e lontana,_

 _là fra la neve bianca, n'andrò,_

 _n'andrò sola e lontana_

 _e fra le nubi d'ôr!_

I wipped the tears from my eyes, letting my sorrow ebb away as reality settled back into place.

I could see Carlisle standing, but I needed a moment to collect myself. La Walla only hit too close to home- I could remember a time when I stared out over the edge of a cliff in La Push and contemplated, myself, if I should hurl myself over the edge. Although it wasn't for the same reasons as the aria, it was for many, many other reasons.

Though the meaning of this song wasn't lost on me.

It was personal, and it was real.

I wiped, again, at my tears and sniffed before I turned and collected my music off both stands before shoving them both into my folder and pushing that into my purse. I could hear the applause continuing, and I turned to look at the panel, giving a short nod at those who were still standing with the audience for applause. Carlisle was smiling the brightest smile, and it filled me with joy to know I had done his- and my- favorite opera justice.

They all sat quietly after a while, the applicants all staring at me with an array of emotions, before Le'Anne spoke into the microphone, dismissing us.

I walked off the stage before being grabbed by the elbow that was bruised from Mr. Panty-dropper from earlier.

"You did amazing, I can't believe you are just out of high school." The accompanist, Mike- I think, spoke.

"Well, thank you, I appreciate that, but I am not amazing, I have so much room to improve. And, Mike, is it?" he nodded vehemently, " If you touch me without my permission again I'll rip your balls off. " I smiled, patting him on the hand, and ripping myself of his grip and stomping down the stairs.

 _Don't fucking touch me._ My body let out an involuntary shiver , I hated when people touched me without my permission.

My hotel was very quiet that night. I didn't feel like watching any TV, or practicing. The nerves of what had happened was really hitting me, and I was immobile. The next morning, I was back on the road, leaving the city that had stolen my heart behind me.

Three weeks later, after biting my nails out almost completely, having multiple break-downs, and practically driving Charlie insane when he was here to hear it, I received a letter in the mail from Juilliard.

My fingers shook as I ripped open the parcel.

My heart stopped as I opened the folded paper.

I passed out at the sight of one word- and that was how Charlie found me, fifteen minutes later when he came down the stairs for lunch on a Saturday afternoon. Passed out, holding an acceptance letter to Juilliard School of Music.

* * *

Translation of song:

Well then! I'll take off far away

like the echo of a pious bell does,

there among the white snow,

there among the clouds of gold,

there where hope, hope

is regret, is regret, is sorrow!

Oh from my mother's mirthful home

Wally will go away from you, from you!

far far away, and perhaps to you,

and perhaps to you, she'll return no more,

nor see you any more!

Never again, never again!

I'll take off alone and far away,

there among the white snow, I'll take off,

I'll take off alone and far away,

and to the clouds of gold!

Well then! I'll take off far away

like the echo of a pious bell does,

there among the white snow,

there among the clouds of gold,

there where hope, hope

is regret, is regret, is sorrow!

Oh from my mother's mirthful home

Wally will go away from you, from you!

far far away, and perhaps to you,

and perhaps to you, she'll return no more,

nor see you any more!

Never again, never again!

I'll take off alone and far away,

there among the white snow, I'll take off,

I'll take off alone and far away,

and to the clouds of gold!


End file.
